The Woman
by steelneena
Summary: Spoilers for Scandal in Belgravia-The Fall: He knows now that Mycroft was wrong. Caring isn't an advantage, it is the means to which a man of intelligence can outsmart the rest, if he is careful. Baring Gould Influence
1. Sherlock

He inwardly smirks, as he remembers the moment. Then chuckles aloud. "The Woman! _The _Woman,"

He thinks of her. Imagines her, and where she is right now. Her name flits through his head. _Clara Stephens_. That's who she is now. _Of Trenton, New Jersey. _

He thinks of his brother downstairs, smiling. Only he could fool his brother.

How long he can manage to, is another story.

Why?

Because he understands now, what it is, that fleeting feeling in pit of his stomach, that passionate sound in his head, the new sense of elation he finds at the thought of simply breathing the same air as _her. _

Love.

It's a fierce sound, feeling, experience.

Like his violin, at its most passionate. It's the adoration of another soul, another form of being.

Being through someone else.

Perhaps.

But it's also the knowledge that there is someone out there with his same thoughts, feelings, intelligence.

He remembers her eyes that night, the tear that trickled lightly down her cheek, the relieved smile that graced her lips when she heard his ringtone, saw his eyes, heard his voice.

To know that there was another person that understood…That felt in a way he had never hoped or even wanted to feel before.

Now he understands.

He smirks once more at the thought of her, as he puts the cell phone away in his drawer to be locked away forever, unless of course on occasion he wishes to look at it, to recall.

He's lucky, he knows that there isn't anyone else as intelligent as himself, or rather with a combination of intelligence and emotion.

He knows now that Mycroft was wrong.

Caring isn't an advantage, it is the means to which a man of intelligence can outsmart the rest, if he is careful.

Neither his brother, nor Watson would ever expect him to have seriously fallen in love with her. And so neither would ever know just what he had done for her.

For himself.

And she is safe because of it.

Perhaps he shall have to watch out for Mrs. Hudson, if he isn't careful, he shall begin to compose a much happier tune on his violin, and she would be the most liable to understand and then blather away his deepest secret.

His desperately unavoidable love for one woman, _the woman, _Irene Adler.


	2. Irene

When she heard the tone, she thought she would die there and then anyways. A tear gently rolling down her cheek. His voice. His eyes. It was the ultimate test.

Test of….

Affection? Love? Longing?

She didn't know. She doubted that she would ever know, when it came to him. Maybe…

All Irene Adler knew was that he was the most intriguing man she had ever met.

It had been a long time since she had let herself feel so deeply, and it had come back to haunt her this time. So much had been lost, and yet…

She had gained something irreplaceable in him. Something…thrilling. Something… deep. Affectionate. Dare she even say loving?

He had been curiously, if not expected silent in their flight from terrorist cell in Karachi. They had left Pakistan as soon as they could, via boat, and he hadn't even told her where they were going, though she was sure that she could imagine.

At the moment, she was trying to discover how he knew she was to be beheaded. Of course he had kept tabs on her. She had known that. After his abrupt dismissal ("Sorry about dinner,") she hadn't expected him to care so much.

It wasn't her job to care. It was her job to pleasure. To please.

He baffled her. Utterly. Completely.

Perhaps she didn't need to understand. Sometimes, calculations were overrated. Even Sherlock had discovered that. If he had not felt anything for her…if he had not reacted to her in the way the both men and women generally tended to do on a daily basis… then he could not possibly have discovered her secret.

Her love for him.

SHERlocked.

God she had been an idiot. Somehow she couldn't really find it in herself to care.

Because there was something about him that told her it didn't matter. While he'd certainly never surrender to his feeling for her completely, she was certain that he cared for her. Deeply. Something in his voice told her that she wasn't going to have to worry about terrorist any longer, or the CIA, or British Secret Service.

He would hide her forever.

His secret.

How apt.

A couple days later, Irene and Sherlock would arrive in Cettigne, Montenegro, after having departed the boat and opting for a taxi.

She wouldn't leave for her new life for a month.

He didn't leave for a week.

* * *

><p>As always, Shameless Baring-Gould references to Montenegro and what happened there.<p> 


	3. Cettigne, Montenegro

"I've arranged for you to stay in America," Sherlock stated without even the semblance of emotion. Irene pursed her lips saucily, disappointed. They sat in the parlour of her hotel room in Cettigne. He was turning out to be a harder nut to crack than most. But that was the fun of it.

He was a new and thrilling sort of goal. Maybe, partly. Because he wasn't a goal. He would be her crowning achievement. She doubted that it would ever get better than him, that there would ever be another someone that came to her - paid her - that could match up to the stone cold unobtainable Virgin that was Sherlock Holmes.

But she knew better.

"Where in America?"

"Trenton. New Jersey. Is that satisfactory?"

"And what on earth shall I do there?"

"Certainly not what you were doing in London. It is of course your choice whether or not you use the file I have made up for you. Know that if you choose not to, I cannot be there every time to save you,"

"Surely you don't believe I'll _need_ saving every time. I can take care of myself, given the chance, and certain phone…"

"It has been confiscated,"

"I surmised as much,"

There was a moment of silence.

"You could sell lingerie," He was straight faced.

"Oh for heaven's sake, let's just have dinner and get it over with!"

"Over with?" curiosity played on his striking features. Just unhandsome enough to be considered extremely interesting. An odd way to describe any man, much less the one with whom she was infatuated. His blue eyes narrowed and a brow arched.

It was the most expression she thought she had ever seen on his face.

"I thought you weren't hungry," She stood shocked, lips parted in slight awe as he stepped towards her. His words were unexpected, soft, and gentle, but there was a scintillating intensity in his eyes that held her, transfixed.

Good Lord, he was a god.

Not amazingly beautiful, nor romantically inclined, and defiantly not animal, but his gaze was magnetic.

She cocked her head, lips pulled into a knowing smile.

He _wanted_ her. The Virgin wanted her.

"I'm not,"

They were chest to chest, inches apart. Somehow, she didn't mind having to look up at him in his impressive height. She could hold any man's gaze, and that was all Sherlock Holmes was, after all.

A man. A man with needs and desires and flaws. Just like any other man. But he was so unlike anyone in the world.

But she…She was _the_ Woman. But not for him.

For Sherlock, she was Irene, and Irene alone.

For him, she would be any woman.

The still was marred by their light breathing, the rustling of his pants leg, her robe sweeping the ground.

Eyes locked.

His arms were around her, her nails clawing lightly at his back. Their lips pressed to one another gently, silently.

A moment later, they drew apart.

Breathless.

"Let's have dinner, shall we?" He asked tonelessly, his hand resting at her lower back. Actions mattered, not words. Irene smiled.

"Let's,"

* * *

><p>AN:The second to last part, I give you a little more to imagine. i won't go so far as to write a sex scene, because while I'm very much a Baring-Gouldist, and i believe in Nero Wolfe as his son... I just well... BBC Holmes is very unemotional.

The line about him being unattractive is canon from somewhere. Either CD or Baring-Gould. Can't remember which. For the record, I find him very sexy. Also, this addresses some of the heat the episode has been getting for screwing over feminism.

Dear Benny,  
>Can I see you do a sexy dance?<br>that would help!  
>Thanks,<br>Lots of Love,  
>Liebedero, a devoted Cumberbitch.<p>

The next part will probably either come tomorrow or the day if you beg, I might just write more than ... there will be a third character and mentions of a fourth. So how about I write a 5th chapter for the story when I receive a review that has the two correct characters.I know some of you who'll know for all the feedback, I really appreciate all the reviews and favs and alerts that this has gotten, even if I don't respond to you. If I don't, I'ts because I've bee writing or wasting away on tumblr.

Liebedero


	4. Nero

The simple idea of it was jarring. _Him._ A father. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at himself. She had skyped him late last night. John was out. Mary something or another. He had told her that if anything serious happened she should Skype him if possible.  
>He couldn't trust a text.<p>

The little light came on that showed Clara Stephens to be online. Naturally, he turned it on, but something in him understood that she wasn't in any danger. He wasn't sure what, just that he had expected her to use it to inconvenience him.

So naturally, he was shocked when, as he turned it on, he saw the confines of a hospital, the top of her head, a black tuft of hair.

He was very tempted to simply turn off the monitor and pretend that he hadn't seen anything. _Oh God._ Instead, he waited very patiently as he listened to the American nurses setting up the laptop for her.

"Hello, Irene,"

"Sherlock,"

He waited until he could hear no more rustlings of the nurse, and was positive they were alone.

"Well…"

"Nero. Wolfe,"

"Any particular reason?"

"I think it's clever. Odd, but clever. You're intelligent, figure it out for yourself," there was a smirk on her lovely features, and a new tenderness in her eyes that he was quite sure could only come from having birthed a child.

"The letter patterns. First the er-o and then the ol -e. It matches my name. As you said, clever, but odd, this: a double entendre insinuating myself. You have buried my name into that of our child,"

"Have I surprised you?"

"Hardly my dear," it was the only endearment he would use with her.

"Well, what shall we do about it?"

"We?"

"Yes we, you had an equal part in his creation after all. The nurses know of course that you are the father. Why else would I be contacting you? So what shall I put on the birth certificate?"

"William Escott. That should suffice. I was once known under that name-"

"William Escott the stage actor? I'm impressed! That was you as Mephistopheles? But I heard that your favourite was Malvolio from Twelfth Night. Perhaps it has something to do with your birthdate being January 6th?" She raised a brow.

"Perhaps," he replied enigmatically, yet he could not hold back a smile.

"He has your eyes, that specific colour and curiosity, you know?"

"Perhaps they retain your cunning?" he replied and her eyes lit up. The vision filled him with that curious feeling he had come to feel on occasion, only around her, in her presence. He supposed that it was a deeper form of caring, though he wasn't sure if he hazarded to call it love. Sure they had 'made love' but it was a pretty turn of phrase.  
>He was certain that adoration came very close to the summation of his feelings. It was hard to tell.<p>

"You should rest. As should he,"

"John set to return soon, or something?"'

"Or something,"

"I hope he finds someone, the poor man seemed lonely. And you aren't much good as company, are you?" she joked back scathingly.

"Hardly, my dear,"

"You can expect to hear from me more often now, you know. He is, after all, your son, too,"

"Yes. There is no denying that,"

"I say we make John his godfather. What about you?"

"Have at, _if_ you can forge his signature. It would be rather funny should he ever discover it,"

"Have one last look then, before you go, off to sleep, there now…"

He watched as she situated the infant in her arms, sitting him so that Sherlock could view him properly. She wasn't the kind of woman, he knew, to love unaffectedly. Despite their mutual resistance to relationships they had ended up discussing the similarity together.  
>She had never loved, and nor had he. She had detested the thought, and so had he. And there she was, lovingly holding a baby - his child, and hers - in her arms. Something in them both was changed. He supposed that having a child did that to people.<p>

Even people like them.

"He's beautiful," he stated softly, but he was looking at her.

* * *

><p><strong>okay. so 1 or two chapters more.<strong>

**featuring John and possibly Mykie. :D**

**Poor Shirly**


	5. John

**Alert! if you haven't seen the Hound of Baskerville, there are some slight but not plot revealing spoilers. if you are not familiar with the Story the Final problem, and the plot of the original Reichenbach falls, you don't want to read the author note at the bottom of this chapter. If you haven't though, go do it. It will save you alot of pointless anxiety, because no matter how original Moffat is, he's still a money monger. You'll understand what I mean later. **

* * *

><p>It was quiet that evening, when John returned to the flat. The main room was deserted. He had left for his date while Sherlock was in one of his states, the kind where he just simply drifted away, as he plucked randomly at his Stradivarius, thinking about everything. He had hoped to return before Sherlock left that state. Ever since the Baskerville incident, John had become even surer that Sherlock was not, indeed, fine, despite his insistence that there was nothing at all wrong with him. He had been under a hallucinogenic, paranoia inducing drug; however, there had been a conviction in his voice, an insistence, which had startled John.<p>

Coupling that with Irene…

As he crept into his living quarters, John began to hear a soft murmur, emanating from behind Sherlock's door. Nearly closed.

There was a soft glow, indicative of artificial light.

He was awake obviously.

But the murmur?

Unintelligible. Too soft the make out.

_A new case?_

_No._

_The Telly?_

_Obviously not; he wouldn't be watching it, he doesn't like it, and there isn't one in his room. _

_Internet video?_

Curiosity piqued, John approached the door, peaking through the crack.

Sherlock's back was to him, as he sat on the bed, and the glow of the lamp offset his figure.

"…not sure…its…importance…of course!"

_He's talking to his laptop?_

John took another step closer. Why he didn't announce his presence, he wasn't sure. Perhaps John had stopped trusting Sherlock to tell him things since he had been used as a lab rat to test a theory.

"Of course! Of course I _care!_"

John blinked. _Oh so he cares now, about what I wonder?_

"Well, how is he?"

Another voice came through.

"_As well as can be expected! Good God he's teething, what do you anticipate?"_

"Well who knows, certainly not I! I'm not an aficionado in that area,"

"_All the usual then, fever, rash in the jaw,"_

"Well use an ice pack!"

"_He doesn't like them. He's awfully particular. Just like you, __**Daddy.**__"_

"You're being preposterous. And don't _use _that _word_ with me. Honestly,"

That voice_. Her_ voice. Good lord. But...

_Teething?_

"_What word? Daddy? Well that's what you are, isn't it?"_

"…"

"_Isn't it?"_

"In no sense of the word, excluding biological,"

"_You make laugh, darling,"_

"I'm sure I do. Perhaps you'd like to throttle me at the present moment, no?"

"_Stop being coy with me, Mr. Holmes," _there was the hint of a smile in her tone.

"Very well, John should be back soon. I'd better go,"

"_Alright, I'll give him the ice pack, you hypocrite. 'Baby's shouldn't have drugs!' My Arse! If he can't, you shouldn't either, Mr. Seven Per Cent Solution. We'll talk,"_

"Yes," And with that, he closed the laptop with a snap and put it to the side. He leant back on the bed, stretching out his limbs.

He put his arms under his head, and crossed his ankles.

He shut his eyes.

"You can come in John,"

Watson nearly jumper out of his shoes.

"Good lord! How on earth did you hear me?"

"I was listening for you. Your shoes and the creak in the left front floorboards just outside the door gave you away. You should take more care where and how you walk when you are trying to go unnoticed. As a military man, even a doctor, I do expect more of you, John. You were positively obvious,"

"If I was so obvious, then how much did I hear?"

"Enough, I presume,"

"_You _presume?" he took a step into the room, incredulous. "_You _presume! You, of all people, have decided to presume!"

"Yes,"

"Why?"

"Because in doing so I can glean more of what you actually heard that what I could ever presume you to have heard, dear Doctor,"

"But she's dead! I…I know… I heard from-"

"Mycroft? Of course you heard. He was _very thorough, _wasn't he?"

"He said that she couldn't have done it again that it would have taken…"

"Sherlock Holmes? Me, to fool him?" the detective had risen suddenly, crystalline eyes flashing dangerously in the artificial light, a gleam apparent that suggested extreme pride. "Of course. Otherwise, he would know she was living. Comfortably, in fact, in America. The exact location, of course, must remain hidden in my head. She must remain _safe._ And the only way to do that is to be silent about it. Thus, you will speak nothing of her to anyone. You do understand, correct?"

"And why wouldn't Ms. Adler be safe?"

"Because no one in my acquaintance or of importance to me is safe any longer,"

"What do you mean?" John watched him keenly. He had begun to pace rapidly, eyes darting, mind obviously in circles.

"Because he is going to make his move soon. And he will do anything to get to me. I know it. Oh, he won't go after Mykie, he won't go after Lestrade or Miss Hooper or even Mrs. Hudson. No. He will target those of the most extreme importance. He won't even go after my own mother. She's too protected, like Mycroft. He must never know about Irene. Or her child. He cannot know. And so, she shall stay in America, anonymous, under a pseudonym. One of which I have designed for her. And it is lucky the boy is so young, that he cannot be distinguished for any intellect which he might later come to possess due to our combined mental capacities. No. He shall target me directly, either that or through you. Do I make myself perfectly clear on this matter. Moriarty must not find them. They are the only ones which I cannot otherwise protect more than I already have. You, however, John, are another matter completely. And I believe you are aware of that?"

"You're talking about Moriarty. But he helped her! Aren't they on the same side? How could he ever find out that you and she…?"

"It doesn't matter. If he did, they would become collateral damage and that I cannot afford. There can be no accepting the terms in this little game of his. I must make my own,"

The flat had become strangely silent, deathly quiet, in the absence of Sherlock's animated, nearly distressed explanations.

"And this is why you let me hear what I did. Isn't it? That is what this is all about. He's coming after you, and you don't trust her to keep hidden. You care about her. You honestly do care about her. Good God what am I saying! You have a child with her! Christ! Sherlock, do you think he can get to you?" John felt the deaf stillness fall heavily in the air between them.

"Yes. Look out for them, in the event…that such a course of action has become necessary, won't you? Goodnight, John,"

And with that, Sherlock threw on his coat, and brushed past John, into the hall and out the door.

* * *

><p><strong>This is turning out to be longer than I had first anticipated, and after the last episode(and it's very ending) alot less lighthearted. <strong>

**I didn't want to give John much time to think about Sherlock's new position in life, so I'm thinking that will be in the next chapter, which will indeed feature the long awaited and anticipated Mycroft Homes(also the great Mark Gatiss, whom I love :D) I promise. **

**If I can get there before next week, I'll do my own version of Reichenbach, though, as I continually say, Reichenbach is the ultimate copout. Anyone intelligent knows that he never dies in any incarnation of that particular story(unless Moffat screws us over, which would give him points for originality in my book, and lets him die permanently, which he won't do because then he wouldn't make any money, would he?) thus I'm not really too excited about the last episode(that there, is a lie)**

**Expect... umm I don't know how many more chapters. Depending on the end of Reichenbach, it could be more than I ever thought.**


	6. Interlude: John and Mycroft

John felt dazed. Shocked. He hadn't moved from his spot standing in the doorway of Sherlock's bedroom. Everything he had just heard…at such a rapid fire pace…

Moriarty was coming. He was hunting Sherlock. Hunting them.

And Sherlock didn't care a whit about himself.

Irene. The baby. Mycroft, his mother, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, himself.

But Sherlock wasn't concerned about his own well-being.

"Well I care," he murmured and plopped into an armchair. He hadn't even realized that he had moved.

And despite everything else that he should be worrying about, John found himself repeating one word in his head.

_Baby. _

_.Baby. Baby. ._

_My God. A Baby._

A million questions flooded John's brain. Where? When? How was she even alive? If he was teething he could be as young as three months… There was that one time…

_"Sherlock…why are you packing a suitcase?"_

_ "I've got a case… an interesting one at that. It's a private party, and they aren't exactly local, but I simply can't pass it up. Won't be needing you. Couldn't take you anyways. They aren't interested in any more third party participation than they have to have. You understand of course," Sherlock had replied in that offhand manner of his. _

_ "Yes, well…this is…unexpected to say the least,"_

_ "Haven't you ever heard? Expect the unexpected!"_

He had been back a week and a half later.

Just a week and a half.

Well, as a doctor, John knew that once was all it took.

And who knew…

"Not going there, not going there…"

He flashed back to the talk he had had with Mycroft in the café. Irene. Dead. Gone. Forever. Beheaded.

_"What might we deduce about his heart?"_

So he had loved her. Just went to prove that Mycroft still knew Sherlock better than he did. They were siblings after all.

Suddenly, John realized that he didn't know the child's name. "Hope she didn't name him Hamish. Poor child, if she did,"

But there were more serious matters to be worried about. Sighing heavily, he picked up his mobile. Dialed.

"_Hello?"_

"Mycroft?"

"_John,"_

"We have to talk. It's imperative, but I'd rather we not discuss it over the phone,"

"_Sherlock?"_

"Moriarty,"

* * *

><p>Very Short, I know, but it's just an interlude. So, you know how I wasn't worried a whit about Reichenbach? I lied. I'm dying. Seriously.<p>

I'm writing the next(much longer) chapter right now. I will upload this evening. I promise.

thanks very much to Gallifry person with long username that I am remembering off the top of my head. Stardust. Yes. You are love for my muse. If you other reviewers take a page out of that book, I'll update once a day.

Also, hopelessly sherlocked, i recieved your message. :D I hope you read this. :D


	7. The Politician and The Doctor

His little brother was inscrutable. Mycroft knew that Sherlock liked to take care of himself, but this was going beyond reason.

Moriarty was more than Sherlock could handle on his own. Moriarty was _obsessed _with Sherlock. Completely and utterly obsessed. The scratches on the walls and window of his holding cell had been nearly frightening to behold. Pathological.

But Mycroft simply could not keep him locked up.

The phone call from John was disturbing, but expected.

Mycroft walked down the street, metallic tip of his umbrella clacking lightly against the flagstone of the old road.

It was going to be a long day. Week. Month.

He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

The headache that had previously been Moriarty had suddenly turned into a pestering migraine that just wouldn't go away. He breathed in and out.

John was waiting for him at the park. He sat on the bench, just sitting. Not doing much of anything other than that. Little did he know that Moriarty had made threats on his life as well as Sherlock's; if he had, then he might have been a little more observant. If he had then perhaps they'd be meeting in a secure facility.

Even so, Mycroft was more worried over his little brother's whereabouts than anything else. The threats against John had been shallow - a facade - designed to target Sherlock.

If his heart could be broken more than once, killing John would have done the trick. The death of the woman... he hadn't been able to keep it from Sherlock. He had discovered it, come to Mycroft - physically - and confronted him about her. The pained look in his eyes had been enough to assure Mycroft of the youngest Holmes' feeling towards The Woman.

Loosing John as well would have been the last straw.

And Mycroft knew what it was too loose someone. He subconsciously fingered the golden band on his ring finger, before sitting down tentatively next to the good Doctor.

"John,"

"Mycroft,"

"Well? Has he contacted you about his current location yet?"

"Yep. Texted me a couple minutes ago. Says he's at Bart's,"

"Bart's?"

"So he claims," John elaborated with a rueful smile.

"Ah. Well, when my brother claims things about himself, once never knows the accuracy of his statement,"

"Yes. Unfortunately so,"

There was a pause as both the Doctor and the Politician looked out at the city, past the confines of the park.

"So. Moriarty," John began. "Sherlock claims that he's coming for him. He seems to think that a move on Moriarty's part is imminent. I don't think that he's been wrong yet, but as Sherlock is prone to saying, you practically are the British government,"

_Sometimes I wish I wasn't._

"He's been just as attention seeking as ever, I suppose, if not more so, of late. He's hinting at something, and well, you know as well as I that he likes to make a splash, likes to have an audience. It's all fun and games to him. If Moriarty is going to make his move, it will be soon, and it will be obvious. He's obsessed with Sherlock. I haven't' shown him the evidence, yet, however…"

Mycroft took out his mobile, and brought up the photos.

"You had him locked up? In custody?" John looked up from the images, shocked. "Couldn't you hold him?"

"We only caught him because he wanted us to do so. I had nothing - and no basis - on which to convict him. No matter how much I wanted to," John was shaking his head in disbelief.

"I don't believe this. I don't - I can't believe this. Moriarty is insane! Completely mental! A total psychopath! Can't you lock him up in some sort of secure facility or another? Isn't this evidence enough to hold him?"

Mycroft sighed resignedly, waiting for John's tirade to subside. He closed his eyes tiredly.

"Politics does not function for us to use as we so please, but rather, for the good of the nation as a whole. We must see the big picture, John. This is why Utopia does not exist. Society needs criminals, John. Criminals to create conflict, and war, and in so doing, jobs and economic prosperity. Your government - and mine - makes _allowances,_ John. All governments do. You should learn to question their motives,:

The Doctor's jaw was set, and his usually calm blue eyes were stormy.

"It's wrong, Mycroft," He turned, locking his stern gaze, frustrated. "Sherlock is your little brother, and someone is threatening him, threatening to kill him, and _you_ can't fabricate a charge to _hold him on?_ How _do_ you do it? Hmm? You're just as bad as he is, if not worse! Good God! I've had it! You need to show him these, Mycroft. He's your family. You make _allowances_ for criminal masterminds, how about making one for the sake of your little brother?"

With that, John stood, and walked away, his back to Mycroft. Dismissive.

The politician huffed a long breath. It was hard being the hand of the British government. Using his own little brother as bait.

He could kick himself in the arse for it. And would do so later, he was certain. Friday the 13th. He had never been a superstitious man, not before this week. There was a nagging pull at the back of his mind that irked him. Sherlock would pay for his own imbecility. Too bad this time, he hadn't had a choice.

His hand had been forced.

"_Enough, Holmes. You've made excuses for him long enough. No more. Not this time,"_

"_Very well,"_

* * *

><p><strong>just a little note<em> - <em>i actually love Mark Gatiss'(all ahil Godtiss)portrayal of Mycroft Holmes. I just love Mark Godtiss all around. His Mycroft, my lovely iceman, if just wonderful. I don't mean to make him out as the bad guy. **

**I love him just as much as Sherly/Benny. **


	8. Enter the Villian

"Nighty, night, Sherrrly! Time to say… goodbye," Moriarty smiled, but his eyes were deadened.

"I don't think so," Sherlock replied, immovably.

* * *

><p><em>They stood atop the Reichenbach building, still, gazes locked, waiting. <em>

_ Waiting. _

_ The traffic continued on below, colourful lights in the dark, but above it was silent. _

_ "The Game beginsssss,"_

_ The hiss was low, quiet, barely discernible._

_ "Life…or death…you…or me," _

_ Still. _

_ Silent. _

_ A finger twitch._

_ A blink. _

_ They lunged. _

_ Jim's hand at Sherlock's throat. Sherlock retaliated, a jab in the side. Jim doubles, counterattack. Sherlock dodges. _

_ Never do they lose that precious eye contact. The next move is everything. _

_ Sherlock's back is to the rooftops edge. There is no countermove, when Jim lunges again._

* * *

><p>"Nighty, night, Sherrrly! Time to say… goodbye," Moriarty smiled, but his eyes were deadened.<p>

"I don't think so," Sherlock replied, immovably.

And as the toppling sensation began, he reached out, thin fingers grasping the lapel of Moriarty's coat. There was a hint of surprise in Jim's eyes.

The Fall was silent.

Moriarty no longer was Sherlock's concern.

_John. _

_Mycroft. Mummy. Irene. _

_Irene and Nero._

He shut his eyes.

And there was nothing.

* * *

><p>He had run. He had run and called the police at the same time. The damn elevators weren't working. He took the stairs.<p>

"The Reichenbach building. Moriarty. Come right now,"

Fragments. They would have to do.

Mycroft.

"Reichenbach, Moriarty, Sherlock. Come. Now,"

They had been on the roof.

The god damned roof.

He shoved the door open.

The force of the shock hit John like a brick wall. He stood at the doorway, watching.

Sherlock was Falling.

He saw the hand, barely, and then Moriarty was falling too.

He was running again.

He couldn't hear himself screaming.

* * *

><p><em>Irene,<em>

That was how the letter began. No special introduction, just her name.

_Know that if you turn on the news this week, you will not be pleased. _

_ There isn't much else to say. _

_ Take care of John. _

_ It goes without saying, but take care of Nero as well._

_ I've become… fond…of you both. _

_ Love is a petty word. _

_ Yours,_

_ Sherlock. _

_ p.s. Montenegro is nice this time of year._

She didn't turn on the news.

She took Nero, packed, bought plane tickets, and left.

* * *

><p>Mycroft didn't run. He walked. There was a deadening to his stride.<p>

Two dead men lay on the ground before him.

A brother.

His brother.

He dreaded the call to Mother.

As he surveyed the scene, Mycroft spotted John, slumped up against the brick wall, defeated. Blood on his hands, on his clothes.

Tear stains down his cheeks.

The ambulance crew was just rushing in. He could hear it now. Two. Dead on arrival.

What he didn't expect was a dead woman.

"Ms. Adler,"

"Mr. Holmes,"

"You got here awfully fast from wherever you were hiding, yes?"

"America. You can thank your brother for that, when next you meet him,"

"He saved you then?"'

"Of course," Neither spoke. "He wrote me a letter. A week ago. Told me not to watch the news. Now they're calling him a fraud. _He_ was not a _fraud!_ Her previously calm voice broke slightly with the utterance.

"What else did it say?"

"I'm to take care of Doctor Watson…"

"And?" She turned to him suddenly, and Mycroft noticed the rim of gloss to her eyes.

"He loved me. He was no fraud," She stated simply, and pushed past him.

"Something has gotten to you. What is it? What!" Mycroft hastily turned back towards her, grasping her arm.

"If you protect me, I'll testify on his behalf, but only if you protect me. Then I leave. I go away. You never see me again. Understood?" There was a frigid air to her statement.

"Are where would you go away to?"

"Montenegro is nice this time of year,"

Mycroft let his hand fall from her arm, and they both turned back to look at John, still sitting in shock, alone unmoving.

"So he told you then?"

"Of course he did. I'm his Woman,"

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry it's a little late, but I still haven't seen all of Reichenbach. I'd only seen from the fall to the end at first, and then i put off watching it until today. I just got to Sally being a total bitch and falling for Jim's plan. Anyways, I've got the next part in my head, but I want to watch the rest of the episode first, to see if I can see what Moffat claims we've all been missing. <strong>

**I was very tempted to simply kill Sherlock and be done with it. **

**I promise, Mycroft will have that apoplectic fit when he finds out about Nero. Eventually. **

**Next up, Martin - the rage of Freeman.**

**Oh, wrote the 'fall' before I saw anything, so that was my interpretation of it. But you can still take the episode with this, I hope. I liked it better at night. **


	9. Convergence at 221B

"My best friend. Sher..Sherlock. Holmes…is dead.

But I don't believe that,"

He was facing the mirror. Pale. Dark circles.

"I…I don't…I DON'T BELIEVE THAT! I don't believe…I don't believe…it…no, God no," He closed his eyes, tight as he could. "I _know_ Moriarty was real. I _know_ it.

I don't believe it.

I don't believe that you are dead.

I don't believe that you were a fraud.

I KNOW THAT YOU DIDN'T LIE TO ME! You wouldn't…you wouldn't. Not to me. Not me. God no, oh God no,"

Hands grasped the sides of the sink, bloodlessly stark. Pale.

He hung his head down a moment.

Looked up.

His reflection haunted him. He could not see anything but that moment. Like a raven, black against the light polluted sky.

The Fall. His eyes. The last thing that John saw, were his eyes. _Look at me, John._

"I believe in you. I do. I really truly do. And don't you tell me otherwise. Don't, or you'll drive me insane. Just don't…don't…"

* * *

><p>She took the stairs slowly, one at a time, the baby carrier swaying in a lolling manner. It was still an unusual accessory to her, but it helped to disguise her. She could hear him talking to himself. Yelling at a dead man.<p>

_Look after him. _

In coming, she had accepted.

"John,"

He turned around at an incredible speed, taking in the pristine sight of Irene Adler with a grave poise that she had not expected of a man who had just lost his best friend.

"Ms. Adler,"

"Under the circumstances, best to call me Irene,"

"And him? What's his name? Sher-He never told me," John swallowed the name with discomfort.

"Nero. Wolfe. He's your godson, you know. I forged your signature, at his behest. He thought it…a good laugh that you wouldn't know. But he meant it. With the situation as it is, I'd rather you know in a serious manner than a lighthearted one. Shall I put on tea, or would you rather coffee?"

"Something stronger would be nice,"

"I'm afraid not. In the darkest hour, the worst thing you can do is give in to your vices, no matter how easy it might be. Trust me, I know,"

"You're handling all _this_ rather well," he gestured widely with his hands. Words were insufficient.

"Yes, well, someone has to carry on,"

"Well, I think that _that_ position is held by ALMIGHTLY MYCROFT!" She watched John's fists clench with rage. "He doesn't seem to give a damn that his BROTHER is DEAD!"

She remained calm as she sat in the armchair that had once been Sherlock's. John glowered at her. "Mr. Holmes is a private person. He mourns Sherlock in his own way,"

"Like you, I suppose? _Perfect_ Irene Adler, never shows any sort of weakness, frailty, fragility,"

"I have a child to think about, now. A fatherless one at that,"

"Right, right, mhmm, sure," He was pacing.

"I've agreed to testify. Against Moriarty. In return for the protection that Sherlock can no longer give me. Just thought that you should know... I believe in him too. And he wouldn't want you to mourn him. He would want you to take action. Don't disgrace his memory,"

"I- I could never!"

"Then _do_ something, rather than wallow in your grief! Live up to his expectations of you!"

"Why are you here? Why are you telling me this!"

"Because he wanted me to," She held up the letter. John's jaw dropped, and he sat down, in awe at her blatant revelation. "I'll see you soon, Doctor. By the way, Mycroft doesn't know about Nero, so I'd be obliged if you would refrain from mentioning him,"

He didn't regard her as she took the carrier, and walked out the door. It didn't matter. He wouldn't be speaking to Mycroft any time soon anyways.

She was not secretive as she left. Deep inside, she wanted people to know. She wanted them to know, if only so she could be assured of it herself. That he had cared.

That he had loved her.

Montenegro.

_Montenegro is nice this time of year._

She _hated_ him.

"Oh goodness! Who are you?"

The landlady. Right. Mrs. Hudson.

"Just a friend, checking up on John,"

"Oh won't you stay for tea? I heard shouting, was he being cross with you? He's having it bad right now, but I'm sure you know that…"

Reluctantly, Irene sat down, placing the carrier on the floor. Nero was a quiet child. Much like Daddy. Serious.

"Oh, what a beautiful baby!" the kindly lady exclaimed as she came back to the table, steaming cuppa in hand.

"Thank you," Mrs. Hudson looked Irene over as she set down the cup, a concerned air about her.

"Are you alright?" There was a long moment of silence, as Irene took a sip of her tea. She gently placed it back onto the table, looking ahead, eyes far away.

"I don't know, I don't know,"

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

**yes. I'm spoiling you all. Two chapters in one day. have fun. I expect twice the reviews :D just kidding. **

**You have all been wonderful to this story, every last one of you. Thsi is probably one of my most successful, and I thank you for keeping me interested in writing it. You all are my motivation. **

**So who next? Mycroft? More John? Angst-John is a ton of fun to write. **

**Or maybe you want to see Sherly?**

**hehe**


	10. Meetings

**A/N: Apparently I'm going to be the best person ever. Loooong chapter. I promise you. I'm not sure hw it'll work out, considering that the format I've decided to write this in - stream of consciousness/train of thought - doesn't leave much room for extensive narration. Enjoy, Barus and Allons-y Doctor, you're getting your wishes. By the by, fuck the timeline. I don't know how time passes in this show. Nero's a year.**

* * *

><p>He felt utterly pathetic. It had been decided that the best place he could stay was with Harry. She, of course, had proceeded to infuriate him, like she always did. The flat was just…too filled with him. His presence lurked there, like a poison, waiting for him. Waiting for him to simply succumb to the sorrow. The pain of loss. The heartache.<p>

There was nothing could get it out of his head. Not even a good old fashioned argument with his sister.

Which was the source of his current situation. Outside, chilled, standing by the entrance to the Hotel Grande. He pulled out his cell

_Should you feel the need to talk, please, feel free to visit:_

_ Hotel Grande, 2nd floor, 221._

_ Maybe get to know your godson. _

_ -IA_

She was horrible, but there was no one else.

He entered the building, and walked to the elevator, pressed the button. Second floor was awfully low key for her, but then again, she was supposed to be in hiding, and she did have a child. He took his time walking down the hall. One foot in front of the other. Steady, yet slowly. It nearly killed him to knock on the door.

221 was staring him in the face. He supposed she was being nostalgic.

It was killing him.

"Just a moment," He could hear the pat of her feet - bare it seemed - on the ground as she came to let him in. He heard the click as the door swung open. Before he could even see inside, she was walking back into the room.

Naked.

Good lord.

"I was just about to have a soak. Nero's asleep, so you don't have to worry or anything," He could hear her voice drifting in from the bathroom. He hadn't moved.

She looked out from the doorway. 'Well, come in," she said impatiently. "And close the door behind you. There's nothing quite like a good soak when I'm not in a good mood. You should join me. You'll feel better,"

"I don't think so," he replied blandly, but she smiled, and he was relieved to realize that she had been joking. All the same, she beckoned for him to follow her into the large bath area, unconcerned of her appearance. It wasn't that he was surprised, it was just…he sighed as he sat down on the posh chair against the wall, while she stepped in, and sank into the bath.

Uncomfortable.

"And this is not awkward at all…"

"Oh come John, Sherlock knew what I did for a living,"

"Yes well…he was my best friend,"

"Acknowledged," She tilted her head slightly, but the glint in her eyes soon went away, and she sighed, but not contentedly.

The room smelled of her lavender soap, and he couldn't breathe. John rubbed his forehead.

"Headache? I can give you a massage later, if you like. That's what I used to do, you know, before I got into the business of recreational scoldings. While we were in Montenegro-"

"How can you just keep talking about him? How can you even bare to say his name? HOW? I demand to know if you cared or not, because right now, it certainly doesn't seem like it!"

John had shot to his feet. He was breathing heavy, looking at her in the same way he had when she had revealed the first time that she wasn't dead. Looking at her like he would gladly murder her is she dared to hurt _him._

She swallowed lightly, and blinked her eyes, John's intense gaze locked upon her.

She bit her lip. And a light sob escaped her blood red lips.

It was only then that he realized she was crying gently.

"I'm sorry," he quickly apologized, and sat down again.

There was silence for a long time.

Irene breathed deeply.

"He knew what I did. A professional, I was. I was out on my own. Wasn't making much. And I needed to do something to support my lifestyle. I always had a bit of a sadistic streak in me. There was a famous playwright… I used to live by his words. "I don't want to be loved. I want to be desired. Love is safety, but desire is foul,"

She paused. Breathed in and out. Closed her eyes. "He changed that for me, you know. Sure I've had sex with a lot of people, in a lot of places, and in various compromising positions, but I never made love to anyone. Love was off limits. But I made love to him. The one and only, I promise you that. When a girl can feel as special as he made me feel… to be the only woman he even basely acknowledged… I never thought that I'd fall prey to it you know. Love. Never thought that I'd let it get to me. Being the one and only does that to you. I suppose you understand what I mean, on a different level. You were the only one he ever let in. The only normal person he put up with. He was something extraordinary, and he let us in.

So yes, I care. But I have to be strong. Nero may only be a baby, but he's intelligent. Children know when something is wrong, just like dogs or cats. They can tell when we're 'off'. But I don't blame you," She tugged on her lower lip with her teeth.

"It's hard. Hard to act as if everything is alright, when you know it isn't,"

"Thank you. For telling me that. I…"

"You needed to hear it,"

"Yeah. Definitely,"

"Would you… like to watch Nero? Sometimes, I mean. He's, well, a little piece of Sherlock. And your godson, I can't very well keep you away, if you would want to come, that is,"

"Thank you. I'd be glad to,"

* * *

><p><p>

The one thing that Mycroft did not expect to encounter when he arrived at Irene's apartment was John, much less sitting on the floor. The thing he could not _believe_ was the baby that the doctor was entertaining.

A baby with a black tuft of hair on his head. A baby that looked up at him with amazingly blue eyes.

John looked up at Mycroft, his mouth open and his eyes wide, mouthing for words of explanation.

And then _she_ walked in.

She was impeccably dressed, heels giving her the edge on John, who had stood up when she had entered.

Blood red lips pursed.

"You were supposed to be waiting outside. With the car," She stated, monotone, as she bent to lift the child into her arms.

"How old?" He could feel the colour returning to his face.

Quickly.

"Just under a year," She was still emotionless, as she handed the child over to John. "Have fun," She gave him a little smile, turned purposefully, grabbed her clutch and strode out the door, past Mycroft.

There was a lot of explaining to be done, but no words were exchanged until they reached the safety of the car.

When he finally could talk without fear of being overheard by the wrong ears, Mycroft found that he had no idea what to say. Needless to say, it was a first.

There was silence for a while, neither really knowing what to say to the other.

_I'm an uncle. Good lord. What have I done? I practically pushed them together!_

"Is he waiting?" She asked suddenly.

"Yes. He is," neither looked at the other.

"John still hasn't forgiven you, you know,"

"I don't expect that he will until he knows. We're all toying with his emotions. This is a dangerous game that Sherlock has asked us to play,"

"He knows that. We all do,"

"Yes," Mycroft turned his head, addressing her. "But does he know what you intend on doing?" He lifted an eyebrow archily.

"He will by the end of our meeting,"

"And you are fully prepared to accept any and all resulting consequences?"

"You're prepared to offer me my prearranged protection?" She pursed her lips, but her eyes were smiling.

"If I don't, my little brother surely will," Mycroft sighed resignedly, and the woman smirked.

The car turned the curve down and into the cemetery. It was lush, and green and growing. Ironic place to be the land of the dead, where life was so resilient.

Sherlock had chosen a morbid place to say the least. They exited the car, and waited for it to drive away, down the still road, before following the path into an alcove of trees. Secluded. Fitting.

He had been waiting; he emerged seamlessly from the shadows, as if he were a part of them. Nothing more than a figment of their imaginations, flitting around in their minds. Watching them. Haunting them.

But he spoke.

"Mycroft…Darling," The use of the endearment caught Mycroft slightly off guard, and he listened, intrigued as she replied in the like.

"Hello dearest," Not, however, to his surprise, they refrained from any type of physical contact. All the same, he could see the… hunger…in Sherlock's eyes. He glanced over to _her_. Apparently, the feeling was mutual. How long had it been since last they had seen one another in person?

A long time he supposed.

After all, they were both dead.

"Brother. We have some business to discuss, I believe,"

"Indeed. There will be things that I will require from the both of you. Of course, your continued secrecy on the matter of my survival. John cannot know. It is essential that he not know. If he were to discover my survival, then the entire plan could be compromised. I spoke with Molly not more than a day ago. She understands the part she must play,"

At the thought of her, Sherlock felt slightly guilty. The things that he had now gone through with the unassuming mortician…

"_Molly?"_

_She was startled. He had crept up on her, as she lay, curled with her cat, Toby, on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, the telly flashing images at her unseeing, sleep-filled eyes. She had sat up most suddenly at the sound of her name; ever since she had discovered that her ex-boyfriend had been a psychopath, she had been jumpier than usual._

_ "Sherlock! What are you doing here? I thought you had to go on the run?"_

_ "I do, Molly Hooper, however, there are a few things which I need to go over with you. Essential things to keeping our ruse in place. I need you again, Molly. And…I wish to thank you for helping me," he looked down at his hands, in a nearly ashamed manner. It was only two days after his supposed suicide, and here he was, come to tell her that she had to keep up appearances, and keep John in the dark. John, who had always been more kind to her than he had. _

_ "It was nothing Sherlock. What do you need me to do?" As he explained, he watched her nod in acquiescence, not asking any questions, or making any protests. Just taking everything in stride. When he was done, she was nodding, a sort of fiercely stubborn look on her face. _

_ "Molly?" he inquired. _

_ "Um, oh, sorry. Yes, of course, I'll take care of everything. Promise,"_

_ "Any questions?"_

_ She was silent a while, a curious look, one that he couldn't quite place._

_ "I…well…Grea - you know, DI Lestrade - well…he and I…are sort of starting something. He's getting a divorce you know, and well…_

_ I can't pretend that I didn't feel something for you, you know. You were never the kindest person, but well…thank you for what you said to me. I know you meant it. Mean it, I mean. About me mattering. And…it, well, it means the world to me. That you…c-care. So I just want you to know that, well…even if you don't really care, I'm alright now. _

_ But…I do have one question…"_

_ He waited patiently for her to continue, but he could never have deduced her next question. _

_ "Who was she? That dead woman that- OH! I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"_

_ "It's fine. You are speaking about the woman whose body I identified that Christmas?" She nodded meekly._

_ "What about her?"_

_ "Who was she? I-I mean… How you identified her…by…not her…face…"_

_ "I identified her, yes. By, as you put it, 'not her face',"_

_ "Who…who was she to you?"_

_ "She is, to me, someone…" it was his turn to hesitate. "Special. She duped me. I thought that it was her, dead on that slab. It wasn't, you know,"_

_ Molly sighed in relief. "Oh, thank god, I was…well…it was hard for me to ask but…"_

_ They sat in silence on her couch. It was strangely intimate. The sort of thing that he had only ever shared with John, or Irene. The sort of comfortable familiarity that came with time and trust. _

_ He trusted Molly Hooper. She mattered. _

_ "Molly, can I borrow your laptop?" She ogled him incredulously. _

_ "Umm…yeah, sure, of course,"_

_ He snatched it up without hesitation from the coffee table in front of them and began typing furiously. When the tapping of his fingers against the key stopped, he looked up, stern features illuminated in the dark, and spoke gently._

_ "I trust you Molly Hooper. And you have every right to know who she is," He swiveled the laptop to face her, as he pressed a button, and the video before her began to play. _

_ -Hello Darling! Guess who is six months old? _

_Molly watched the stunning woman hold up a baby, then six months old, apparently, and smile. _

_ -Wave to daddy! I know how you hate it when I call you that, so I say it all the time. When he starts talking, that's what he'll call you and you'll never forgive me. I know it. _

_She smiled a secret sort of smile. Like the Mona Lisa, Molly thought. The woman who had captured Sherlock's heart. _

_ -Anyhow, can't talk long, the business is positively frantic around here. No thanks to you, of course. You had to set me up as a fashion designer for lingerie, you selfish horrid man. But Nero wanted to say hi. _

_There was a pause, as the mischievous glint in her eyes faded. _

_ -I wanted to say hello too. You should come visit. I actually find myself missing you. Has poor John asked Nero's name yet? I don't suppose so. He probably avoids the matter entirely. Probably thinks it was a figment of his imagination. He does seem to have a vivid one, what with all I heard about Baskerville. Take care, darling. Until our next dinner.-_

_Molly bit her lip as the video went black. A deafening silence fell over the room. He had just shown her something incredibly private. Something so close to his closed off heart. She almost wanted to cry. _

_ "She is…dear to me. Obviously. Now you know why. I trust you, to keep this secret,"_

_ "You can count on me,"_

_ He stood, his full, rather impressive, rather intimidating height, and wrapped his scarf secure around his neck. _

_ "I'd better be off,"_

_ "Thank you," Her eyes glistened up at him. He nodded, and turned away silently, melting into the shadows. _

Mycroft had since walked back up the path. The main brunt of their discussion was over. The details covered and the vast extent to which the cover up needed to be faked extensively debated.

The thoughts of the past weeks circled relentlessly in Sherlock's head. He was about to turn away, when Irene caught his hand.

"Sherlock," She didn't need to say any more. When Mycroft turned to see if she was following, he saw instead, his emotionless little brother pull the damnable woman into his embrace, kissing her with - dare he say it? - Passion. A kind he had never before witnessed in Sherlock.

He sighed, fingering the wedding ring on his finger once more.

He hoped for Sherlock's sake that she was behaving herself.

If she died, Sherlock's one source empathy would be gone forever.

* * *

><p><strong>And...things start to get interesting. Enjoy this long beast. <strong>


End file.
